And The Walls Will Fall
by Min the Noodle
Summary: Standing knee-deep in the wreckage of his once beloved dream world, a single soldier is left to pick up the pieces. He once had his friends to turn to. But this time, he may have to do it alone. :: Postgame; Marche-centric. ::


A/N: Egads, it's been a long time. What started out as a single sentence on the side margin of an assignment somehow became an idea, which became this. I'll try my best to finish this one—I promise.

Much thanks to you for reading this, and most of all to Sage, who got me hooked on the FFTA fandom to begin with, and Feral Phoenix, whose writing is some of the most amazing I've ever seen and whose YU story, Dum Spiro Spero, inspired me to get off my behind and write again. Thanks, you two.

_((As always, reviewers and speculations are welcomed, appreciated, and loved forever.))_

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Final Fantasy Tactics Advance in any way, shape, or form. (This should go without saying, but…. Ah well.)

- - -

- And The Walls Will Fall -

T_ime had not treated Bervenia Palace kindly. In the weeks following Queen Remedi's defeat at the hands of Clan Nutsy, the great palace had slowly begun to fall apart. Its marble walls had lost their luster and begun to crumble, fading from pristine white to dull gray in a matter of days. During the same period of time, every one of Bervenia's magical locks had cracked and rusted over, leaving the palace's secrets exposed to the public eye. Not that there was anyone to see whatever treasures its rooms still held; Bervenia's inhabitants had fled long ago, leaving behind everything in their panic. For those first couple of weeks, their possessions lay where they had been dropped, all of them abandoned and forgotten... just like Bervenia itself._

_Legend held that royal magic made up the very backbone of the palace. Given Bervenia's deteriorating state by the time the first month had passed, there was some truth to that sentiment. With the fall of Ivalice's last queen, Bervenia itself had died. Whatever had made it beautiful before was gone, and it was not long before other influences rushed in to fill the void._

_The first of these came not to restore but to destroy. Known by their enemies as rebels and by their supporters as revolutionaries, they were the people who were glad to see the monarchy—the tyranny, they called it—collapse. Their goal was to erase all vestiges of the Randell dynasty. They were armed with torches, hammers, and the eager hatred of a people on a holy crusade. They burned, broke, and killed indiscriminately. United behind a cause made sweet by self-righteousness and intoxicated by the scent of savage triumph, the rebels ransacked Bervenia and burned it until the air was black with soot._

_The second group of people came to stop the first. They were made up of loyalists who had survived the fall and still believed in royal justice, of curators and historians who were appalled at the amount of art being lost, and of those who just wanted peace. Talks between the rebels and loyalists quickly deteriorated, and soon Bervenia became a battleground. The fighting was so fierce and the hatred on both sides so strong that it became nearly impossible to tell loyalist from rebel. It was then that the walls of the palace regained their color; this time, however, its marble corridors were repainted crimson._

_The clash between the two groups had started at the ruins of Bervenia—for it was just ruins now—and rippled throughout the nearby area. By the time the conflict was settled, the rebels and loyalists alike had all but disappeared. All but the most avid of curiosity seekers were gone as well, having decided that their skins were worth more than their personal satisfaction. It was then that the looters crept in, some on silent feet, some boldly, for there was no one to guard the palace now and stop them from taking what they wanted. They carried off much of what had escaped the rebels' torches: a silver goblet here and there; gold leaf scraped from what had once been the prince's bed; a forgotten necklace, its jewels winking in the dirt like a pair of coy eyes._

_They had taken and then they had left, and when they were gone, Bervenia became empty again. Left untended, the once magnificent gardens became overgrown and spilled out over the stones. Ivy crept over archways and sealed off passages, reclaiming what the people had destroyed. The air became thick with dust and the halls that had once seen ambassadors and kings alike now saw only mice. Curtains of spider webs replaced the draperies that the rebels had burned. Once again, Bervenia was silent._

_And in the Royal Year of 1348, four hundred and thirteen days after the last hour of Remedi's reign, the last pillar in Bervenia Palace finally crumbled to the ground._

_- - -_

**LOCATION: BERVENIA PALACE**

**Royal Year 1348, First Kingmoon:**

_The paladin's shoes clicked evenly against the stone, his footsteps muffled by the carpet of dust covering the ground. He was dressed in white from head to toe, and in the late night gloom he appeared almost ethereal. Lifting his torch, he turned to look over his shoulder at his companions. The firelight painted his dark auburn hair with streaks of gold and illuminated his gray eyes, tinting them pale yellow. "Watch your step. The footing is treacherous here." The paladin gestured before him with his free hand, the sword belted at his waist swinging with the movement. "The ground is covered in rubble."_

_Stepping lightly over a fallen column, a creature clad in green and blue wove her way toward him. She was petite even for a moogle and was delicately formed, with elegant paws and large, dark eyes. The chain of a large pocket watch dangled from a slit in her fine-tailored coat. The time mage's high, clear voice echoed through the abandoned courtyard as she called back, "The torch gives off a lot of light. I can see well enough not to trip over any of the larger pieces."_

_The third party member cursed vehemently as he stumbled into the light behind them. The path had been hard for him, made all the harder by his slight limp. "Easy for you to say," growled the nu mou, flicking his staff irritably and making the charms tied to its end jingle. He wore a set of dirty, tattered white mage's robes that looked as if they had been purchased secondhand. "Everyone knows that moogles have light paws. They need 'em, the thieving, devious little rats—there was ne'er a call for honest folk to move so quickly."_

_The moogle bared her teeth at him in response, exposing small, pointed incisors. "Stupid, clumsy nu mou," she sneered. "Maybe you're just slow." She dragged out the "w," pitching her voice higher to irritate him, and her lips turned up into a cruel smile. "Just what I'd expect from a crippled failure who can't function without at least six pints of alcohol in his system."_

_The nu mou lunged at her with his staff, but the moogle skipped backward, evading the blow easily. The crystal on his staff sparked dangerously, then went dark as he backed up and away from the prospective fight. "Let's just find the damn thing and get out of here," he snarled, turning abruptly. "I want to get the job done so I can wash my hands of this whole affair." Jamming his free hand in his robe pocket, he whirled on the paladin. "This had better be the right place."_

"_It is," replied the paladin smoothly. He was a tall young man with a lean frame, wiry rather than bulky. "I've been here before, back when the queen was still in power. See this pattern?" He scuffed at the ground with one foot, wiping away the dust with the toe of his boot. Beneath the grime, a network of broken white, gray, and blue tiles stretched across the floor, spiraling outward from the center before disappearing under the debris. "The reception hall's floor was just like this. According to my outside sources, it was the only room in the palace with this pattern."_

"_Which means that what we're looking for can't be far away," interjected the moogle. Her eyes swept over the ruins, taking in the crumbling plaster, faded paint, and general wear and tear. A ruined portrait of the queen lay sideways on the walk, resting against the remains of a fallen statue. Most of the picture had been lost to rain and weather, but the queen's face was as proud and bleak and beautiful as it had been when it was first painted. A large gash across her neck—the parting mark of a knife-wielding rebel—gaped at the intruders like an open mouth. The moogle shuddered and looked away. "It has to be in this room—or whatever's left of it."_

_Pacing forward, the paladin glanced at the portrait, pausing momentarily to study the woman's features. Framed by waves of dark red hair, the queen's deep blue eyes stared back at him. "You know where it is, don't you, Remedi," he murmured, tracing the gash with his fingertips. His gaze followed that of the deceased queen, finally coming to rest on a small gray mound in the corner. "Bingo," he muttered. Then, raising his voice, he called, "I found it, you two."_

_The moogle was there first, bounding over the debris and dropping to her knees before the pile of gravel that the paladin had discovered. "I can't believe that it's still here," she breathed, bending to examine the stones. One paw brushed reverently against the gravel, sending a small puff of dust into the air. "It's amazing that it was missed in all of the chaos. It still looks untouched; I'm surprised that no one got rid of it or cleaned it up."_

"_Who would bother?" sneered the nu mou, stalking up the path behind her. Pushing her aside, he rammed the butt end of his staff hard into the middle of the pile of gravel. Ignoring the moogle's furious cry, he prodded at the mound, sifting through its contents. Little spiders scurried out from between the pebbles, seeking a safer hiding place. "For all anyone else knows it's just a heap of rocks. Besides, no one's dared to show their heads since that blowout between those damn rebels and loyalists. This place has been undisturbed for months."_

"_Stop that!" the moogle hissed, grabbing the end of his staff with both paws. Her eyes flared and twin spots of color blazed across her cheeks. "Leave it alone! We need this, every bit of it. If you damage any of it and screw this up—"_

_Jerking the rod from her grasp, the white mage barked, "Don't touch my staff, girl." Brushing off his robes as if cleansing himself of the moogle's touch, the nu mou planted the staff and murmured a soft word. The orb mounted in the wood pulsed once, then began to glow with muted white light, illuminating more of the corridor. The mage's contemptuous gaze swept over the gravel scattered across the walkway. "If this pile of junk managed to survive the rebels' torches and their warfare, I doubt that any damage I could do would make a difference."_

_There was a harsh rasp of steel against steel as the paladin unsheathed his sword, effectively cutting off any further conversation. The torchlight gleamed down its blade, pooling like fiery liquid in the letters engraved just above the hilt. "That's enough, you two." His voice was quiet, but the others could hear him perfectly in the near silence. The only other sound was the crackling of the torch. "There are only two hours until dawn; we have no time to waste." Then to the moogle: "Do what you need to do. It's time to get started."_

_Nodding curtly, the moogle produced a small drawstring pouch from her belt. It was made from plain leather, the kind of pouch that mages often kept their materials and samples in. As she brushed past the nu mou, the time mage murmured mockingly to him, "Just try not to get in my way." If the nu mou heard her, he gave no answer._

_Drawing a pawful of clear green stones from the pouch, the moogle placed one at her feet and began to walk slowly around the pile of gravel. Every three or four paces she would let a stone fall before moving on. Instead of clattering to the floor and rolling away, the green objects hit the pathway like raindrops, splattering and seeping into the dirt. By the time the time mage completed the cycle, twelve damp spots formed a perfect circle around the gravel. Placing her paws on the first spot, she blew softly on the wet earth. The ground seemed to quiver; after a moment, the twelve drops of liquid rose back up, reforming into jellylike blobs the color of new leaves. "A clock has twelve markers," she said softly, "one for each hour." The blobs glittered briefly, then went dark. "A day has twenty-four hours: twelve dedicated to light, twelve dedicated to darkness. Two rounds of the clock make a single day." With these words, the blobs glittered again—once, twice. "Life is measured in days, which are measured in hours… and the clock, impartial to all, is the eternal timekeeper."_

_The time mage took a deep breath. "To take back. To cancel out. To reset a clock, one must rewind it. To undo the events here means to rewind time itself." Her paw traced a set of runes in the air. "Four hundred and thirteen days passed means eight hundred and twenty-six turns of the clock." She hesitated and glanced back at the paladin, who nodded at her. The runes began to glow. "Circle of time, be my guide." One paw traced a wide ring in the air. "Hands of time, do my bidding." The other paw followed the path of the first. Clasping them together over the first marker, she whispered, "In your perfect justice, forgive, forget… _and rewind."

_The entire circle pulsed with energy, glowing a bright, incandescent green in the darkness. Ribbons of light streamed from its border to the middle of the ring, forming a pair of crooked hands over the pile of gravel. Each of the blobs reformed into a glowing numeral, starting with the marker to the moogle's left and ending at the symbol for twelve. Archaic writing spiraled out from beneath the moogle's paws, ringing the numbers in light. For a second the image wavered and the spectators held their breath. Sweat beaded the time mage's brow. This spell was a key part of a complex magical working; if anything went wrong…._

_Slowly, ever so slowly, the hands began to spin. A steady ticking sound rose up, softly at first, building in speed and volume until the individual clicks blended together into a deafening roar. The very air seemed to hum with energy. As the hands blurred past, the tiny time mage kept her paws pressed firmly into the dirt. Behind her, the paladin cast a glance at the white mage, nudging the flagstones with his sword in a get-ready gesture. Their part would come soon._

_Inside the circle, the thick layer of dust began to stir. The little spiders crawling around its border froze for a moment before they were pulled back into the heap of gravel. Layer upon layer of dust was lifted away; scorch marks stretched across the tiles, then vanished in a burst of flame. The grime peeled away bit by bit, stopping at the edges of the green clock face. Everything outside of the spinning hands' reach was left untouched, but inside, things were changing rapidly. The events within the circle were undoing themselves, and as the pile of gravel began to tremble, the paladin could not help but smile. Lit and made eerie by the magical glow, the ruined portrait of the fallen queen looked on disapprovingly. Four hundred and thirteen days after the last hour of Remedi's reign, it alone would bear witness what was to take place on the grounds of this bloodstained, forgotten palace._

_Two hours until dawn.  
It would be a long, long night._

- - -


End file.
